Wine and Other Intrusions

“There’s a fine line between turning up uninvited and turning up just in time. Cody’s never learned where it is.”

As my car approached the familiar curve of my driveway, I found myself casting one more glance towards the bottle of shiraz. It sat on the passenger seat, its dark contents seemingly offering a silent, comforting presence. A quiet sentinel.

As the car juddered across the edge of the steep driveway, the bottle wobbled slightly, as if nodding a hello to me in its own inanimate way. The motion was oddly endearing—like it, too, had survived the morning and was politely checking in.

I smiled at the quaintness of it. A silly little moment, really—but a brief and welcome reprieve from the tangle of thoughts still circling my mind. A sip of that wine would be a small mercy after the unsettling conversation I’d had with Luke not fifteen minutes ago. The idea of its rich, velvety taste unfurling across my tongue felt like a soft promise—relief, if only temporary.

As I pulled the car to a stop, a heaviness settled over me.

Despite the stillness of the neighbourhood, my thoughts buzzed like powerlines in a storm. I couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that Luke had spun a web of lies. Maybe not malicious ones—but evasive, calculated. And to what end? That part remained stubbornly blank.

With a deep sigh, I gathered my handbag and the bottle of wine, the latter now feeling less like a drink and more like a companion. Something reliable. I closed the car door with a soft thud. The sound echoed faintly in the morning quiet, crisp and undisturbed.

My head bowed, eyes fixed on the ground, I made my way towards the dozen steps leading up to my front verandah. Each step felt deliberate, my boots brushing against the cool concrete. My mind looped through everything—Paul’s card, Jamie’s absence, Luke’s smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then—

"You're out early," a deep, resonant voice boomed, snapping the thread of my thoughts.

I jolted. My head snapped up, instincts firing. There, perched casually on the low wall that hugged the perimeter of my front verandah, was a man I recognised instantly.

Slender, tanned, and comfortably at ease, he sat with his legs dangling over the edge, muscled calves visible beneath navy shorts. Despite the brisk winter air, he looked unbothered. Typical.

"Cody," I acknowledged, my voice tinged with wariness. "What a surprise. You haven't been by for a few weeks, I thought you'd moved on."

The words were delivered with an attempt at lightness, but they carried an undercurrent. A part of me was genuinely surprised—and not altogether pleased. Cody’s visits had always landed somewhere between a thrill and a complication.

"Looks like I shouldn't have bothered," he replied nonchalantly, holding up a wine bottle of his own.

His tone was breezy, but something about it—something just beneath the surface—felt off. As though his words were papering over something sharper.

The corners of my mouth tugged into a slight frown. I couldn’t tell if he hadn’t heard my earlier comment, or if he’d chosen to ignore it. Knowing Cody, I suspected the latter.

Without another word, I hurried up the concrete stairs. My steps quickened, urgency rising in me. Not because of the cold, but because of him. His presence. His posture. His audacity.

"Come inside," I said hastily, my voice low but firm. "I've told you before not to be so obvious."

My mind flashed to my parents—stoic, judgemental, and never quite approving of anything I did that strayed beyond the accepted script. The idea of them finding out about Cody, a man more than ten years my senior, lounging on my verandah with a bottle in hand like it were Sunday brunch—it was unthinkable.

They wouldn’t understand.

And Cody’s casual disregard for discretion… it was a risk I couldn’t afford.

As I approached the front door, the key felt cool and solid in my hand. I slid it into the lock with practiced ease, the motion so familiar I could’ve done it blindfolded. But today, there was a sharper edge to it—a sense of urgency that wasn’t usually there. I twisted the key until I heard the satisfying click of the lock giving way, a small but vital act of control.

"Perhaps you should give me a spare key, then," Cody suggested, his voice suddenly close—almost in my ear.

I flinched slightly at the intimacy of it. He’d moved in beside me with that silent, confident ease of his, the kind that always made me feel both protected and dangerously exposed. His body radiated warmth in the chill air, and his scent—earthy, clean, faintly smoky—folded around me like a memory.

He reached out casually and grabbed hold of the bottle of shiraz in my hand. Just like that.

A wave of stubbornness surged through me.

I held on.

"Perhaps another day," I told him, voice calm but firm. It wasn’t just about the wine. It was never just about the wine. It was about boundaries—ones I needed to keep, even when part of me wanted nothing more than to let them blur.

Inside, I stepped across the threshold, my movements deliberate, my focus turning inward. The familiar hush of the house wrapped around me, a welcome insulation from the mess of the morning. Behind me, I listened for the sound of the front door swinging shut—a small, grounding closure to the outside world and the complications it brought with it.

"Gladys," Cody called from behind me, his voice echoing faintly through the space between us.

I didn’t respond. Not yet.

Instead, I continued into the kitchen, my sanctuary. The room felt calm, the kind of space that held no demands. I dropped my handbag onto the bench with a dull thud, the sound far heavier than it should have been. Beside it, I placed the bottle of wine—no longer just a drink, but a symbol of everything I was balancing. Cody. Jamie. Luke. Paul. Secrets and silences piling on top of one another.

"Gladys, I’ve missed you," Cody’s voice softened, now just a murmur. A thread of vulnerability laced through it.

His hands slid around my waist—strong, firm, familiar. The feel of them pulled a small smile to my lips, involuntary but real. His touch had always done that to me. There was a strange reassurance in the way his calloused fingers settled gently on me—rough from labour, yet careful in ways he never spoke of.

But then came the thoughts. The silence. The weeks of absence. Questions still waiting in the wings.

The smile faltered.

"Where have—" I began, but the rest was stolen.

I’d turned to face him and his lips met mine before the sentence even had a chance. It wasn’t tentative—just soft, certain. His stubble grazed my cheek, a sensation that sent a shiver skimming up the back of my neck. His tongue nudged gently at my lips, and despite myself, I responded. We found our rhythm quickly, too easily.

It was a kiss made of memory.

Our tongues danced in that familiar pattern, his body pulling closer, and still—there it was.

I felt his hands shifting behind me.

I knew Cody well enough to predict what came next. He’d try to lift me up, that old habit of his, as though we were still in the heady flush of a newer time. But I wasn’t there—not today. Not with this much unanswered.

The moment was slipping too far, too fast.

With a mix of reluctance and resolve, I broke the kiss, pulling my face back sharply. The suddenness caught him off guard. His hands fell away, hovering for a moment in the space where I had just been.

Silence pooled between us. A charged stillness.

"I'm sorry," Cody said, his voice edged with regret. "I've had to travel for work the past week. I should have contacted you."

The apology hung in the air, clumsy and sincere in equal measure. A sentence trying to repair something that hadn't quite broken, but had bent—just a little.

I shrugged. A small, dismissive motion. Practised.

The truth was, I didn’t particularly care that he’d been gone. Not anymore. I had long since adjusted to the rhythm of his presence and absence—these gaps in communication, the days that drifted without word. It was what we did. Not defined, not discussed.

He leaned in again, ready to kiss me once more, guided by the same old pull.

But this time, I was ready.

"Cody, stop," I said firmly, pressing my hands to his chest.

I needed space. To think. To breathe. To feel like I was still the one steering the ship.

Cody looked at me, his expression forlorn, a mix of confusion and concern etched plainly across his face. There was something boyish about the way his eyebrows pinched together, like a child afraid he’d broken something delicate.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

I shook my head, though the motion felt too small to match the storm churning inside me. How could I begin to explain it? The overlapping feelings, the strange encounter with Luke, the gnawing questions I wasn’t ready to name out loud.

"Nothing," I replied, too quickly. "I just have a lot on my mind at the moment, that's all."

It was a half-truth, and we both knew it. Something was bothering me—something I couldn’t yet give shape to. The web of tangled thoughts, pulled tight by the events of the morning, made it impossible to separate one feeling from another.

I felt the gentle sweep of Cody’s hands as they travelled up my spine. The gesture was so him—measured, instinctive, meant to soothe. It was the kind of touch that had once meant safety. Now, it just complicated things.

"You can talk to me, Gladys," he encouraged softly, his words brushing the back of my neck with quiet patience.

I let out a heavy sigh, long and tired, as though I could breathe out everything I didn’t want to say.

"I'm sure it's nothing," I said, though the sound of it rang false even in my own ears. I wanted to believe that. I really did. But the effort it took to bottle it all up—to hold the cork against something threatening to bubble over—was beginning to wear me thin.

"Well, with a sigh like that, it doesn't sound like nothing," Cody prodded gently, his tone warm but insistent.

He had a knack for sensing when I wasn’t being honest with myself. Sometimes I found it endearing. Other times—like now—it made me want to retreat.

I stepped out of his arms, a quiet shift rather than a rejection, needing a little distance. The physical space gave my thoughts more room to move.

Without speaking, I crossed the room to the cupboard—the one where I kept the wine glasses, neatly arranged behind a frosted pane of glass. The ritual of pouring a glass, of reclaiming a moment of peace in a swirling day, felt like something I could control.

But just as I reached for the door, Cody’s voice broke the stillness.

"It's a bit early for that, isn't it?” His tone was light—half-joking—but beneath it, I caught the faint thread of concern.

I paused, my hand resting on the cupboard handle, and rubbed at my left temple. A dull pressure had started to throb there, the kind that came from overthinking.

"I suppose it is just a little early," I conceded with a reluctant sigh.

The truth was, I wanted the comfort. Not just of the wine, but of the moment it would give me—where I could hold something warm, swirl it, sip slowly, let it distract me from all the things I didn’t understand. But he was right. And it irritated me that he was right.

I stood there for a moment with my back to him, suspended in thought, until I heard the soft rustle of pantry shelves as he began rummaging behind me.

Then, like a stone skipping across the surface of my thoughts, a flicker of realisation struck.

"But hang on," I said suddenly, turning to face him. "Didn't you bring wine too?"

My tone wasn’t accusatory—it was wry, amused by the irony of his earlier comment. I raised an eyebrow, watching for his reaction.

Cody emerged from the pantry, blinking as if I’d caught him mid-thought. "I thought we could share it later," he replied, and there was something tentative in his voice—like he was trying to plant a seed for a slower, more intimate evening.

"Hmm," I mused, my eyes drifting past him into the open shelves behind.

My mind had begun its return to earlier puzzles. Luke, the list, the credit card with Paul’s name. My phone still sat on the kitchen bench, dark and quiet. No message from Jamie. No call.

I opened my mouth to speak— "I..."

—but the sentence faltered. I turned back toward the bench instead, leaning lightly on its edge.

My brow furrowed.

I had never known Luke to lie. Not directly. Not to me. And yet… something had felt off from the moment he’d stopped me in the hallway. The question lingered, heavy in my chest: What reason would he have to start now?

And why did I suddenly feel like I was the only one who noticed?

In a sudden impulse, I spun around, the need to express my thoughts overriding the hesitation I’d been nursing all morning.

"I just had a rather strange conversation with Jamie's partner," I blurted out. The words tumbled from my mouth before I could second-guess them, pushed out by the growing weight of unease.

"Ah, Luke?" Cody’s voice came muffled, still half-swallowed by the pantry as he rummaged for… whatever it was he thought he needed.

I couldn’t help but smile despite myself.

"Yes," I replied, amusement creeping into my tone. "You're starting to remember them all then."

It was a small, bright moment—a flicker of humour in the swirl of uncertainty. One I needed more than I realised.

Cody poked his head out of the pantry, a broad, boyish grin on his face.

"And what did Luke say?" he asked, eyes twinkling with curiosity. For a moment, he looked as though he genuinely expected gossip rather than concern.

"He said that Jamie was sick," I stated plainly, watching his expression closely.

Cody cocked his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a dry smile.

"Well, that hardly seems strange," he remarked. "I'm sure Jamie has been sick before."

I frowned. He’d missed the point entirely—or chosen to miss it. Surely he could tell that wasn’t what I meant.

But then, like a light flickering back on, I remembered the physical proof—the note that had lodged itself among my belongings like a burr. I rushed over to where I’d dropped my handbag, rummaging with urgency.

"But then he gave me this really weird list," I said, my voice now laced with the confusion that had been sitting on my chest all morning.

I pulled the folded paper free and handed it over.

Cody took it from me with a raised brow and unfolded it with casual curiosity. He skimmed it quickly, lips quirking.

"Looks like he has plans to build something," he remarked, his tone still light, dismissive—like it was all a little charming oddity.

But as his eyes lingered on the bottom of the list, I saw it. The change.

A flicker of recognition. A widening of the eyes. Something unspoken passed across his face before he masked it again.

My frustration prickled.

How could he possibly know more about this than I did?

"He said it was a surprise for Luke's birthday," I added quickly, trying to stay ahead of the look I’d just seen.

"But he didn't say what he was building?" Cody asked, his gaze now lifted to meet mine, sharper than before.

"No," I replied, tension twisting in my gut.

Before he could offer a theory—before he could pretend to be helpful in that vague, infuriating way—I blurted out the part I hadn’t yet shared:

"And he also gave me his brother's credit card."

I watched his face closely, my attention narrowing. There, I thought. Let’s see how well that fits into your version of sensible.

Cody looked up at me, thoughtful now, no trace of amusement left.

"And where was his brother?" he asked, echoing the very question that had been scratching at the back of my mind since I pulled away from their house.

"No idea. I didn’t see him. But I didn’t think to ask until after I’d already left," I admitted, frustration folding into regret.

"That is quite odd," Cody agreed, his voice more measured now. There was a flicker of concern there too—finally.

"I think you should help him."

The suggestion landed like a rock in my stomach.

I stared at him, my mouth parting in disbelief, but no words emerging at first. The sheer absurdity of it caught me off guard.

"What? Help him? Why?" I exclaimed, the words spilling out louder than I’d intended. My incredulity echoed back at me through the kitchen air.

Cody chuckled—light, easy, maddening.

"So many questions," he said, clearly entertained. "I'm sure Luke has a good reason for it all."

I stared at him, stunned. The nonchalance. The breezy dismissal. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or throw something.

His calmness didn’t soothe me.

It made me feel even more alone with the weight of my instincts.

We stood there, locked in a moment of silent confrontation. Cody’s gaze held mine—calm, steady, challenging. It was a look that said convince me otherwise, and I hated that, at the moment, I couldn’t.

My mind, rather than constructing a rebuttal, drifted elsewhere. To the wine glasses in the cupboard. To the bottle of shiraz still sitting quietly on the bench. A mute observer to all this nonsense.

What harm could it do for me to help Luke?

The question surfaced again, clearer now, a rational voice trying to cut through the fog. I didn’t have to believe the whole story to go along with it. Not yet. Maybe helping was the only way to understand what was really going on.

"You've already got the week off work anyway, don't you?" Cody’s voice broke into my thoughts, dragging me back to the present.

"Yeah, but…" I started, trailing off as the usual swarm of buts and what-ifs began buzzing in my head.

All the doubts. All the questions I hadn’t asked. The way Luke had stopped me from seeing Jamie. The list. The card. Paul’s absence.

Cody shrugged, maddeningly unfazed.

"May as well," he said. "It's not like you're spending your own money."

I looked at him, waiting for a hint of irony. There was none. Just that laid-back, straight-to-the-point logic of his—so frustrating and, at times like this, so effective.

Almost persuaded, I let myself be drawn into his arms.

His chest was warm and solid against me, his embrace a quiet anchor. My pulse, fluttering just moments ago, began to find a rhythm again—syncing with the steady, unbothered beat of his heart.

He kissed the top of my head, light and brief. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything—just reminded me he was there.

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, a small surrender to the comfort he offered.

"You can stay here and wait for me to get back," I murmured into his chest. "The cats would like it."

The image of Cody curled up on the couch with Chloe on his lap and Snowflake throwing disdainful glances from the armchair brought a quiet sense of absurdity to the morning. A flicker of normalcy. Something human to hold onto.

Cody’s arms tightened around me slightly, the movement subtle but full of intent. His presence had always been equal parts reassurance and electricity. But now, as I rested in his hold, a realisation dawned—this would be the first time I’d allowed him to remain here alone.

It felt… significant.

Not because I didn’t trust him. But because I did. And that, in itself, was new territory.

The weight of that decision settled over me—not heavy, but definite. A shift. A small act of intimacy tucked into a much larger, murkier context.

As I stood there, held and still, a sense of resolve began to root itself.

Maybe helping Luke was the right thing to do.

Even if none of it made sense yet.

Especially because none of it did.